


There was only one bed, and it was uncomfortable

by ArtanisNaanie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Universe, Crack, Dubious Consent, Eventual sexy times, Frottage, I did this instead of paperwork, Inspired by a post on tumblr, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Somnophilia, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, The Author thinks she's funny, due to said somnophilia, embarrassing times, things that happens when two people share a bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtanisNaanie/pseuds/ArtanisNaanie
Summary: Five times Geralt and Jaskier share a bed and uncomfortable situations happen. Plus one time where the situation becomes very comfortable indeed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 333





	There was only one bed, and it was uncomfortable

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much Liz for the inspiration and the editing! ❤
> 
> I swear I thought of a suitable title for this for hours. HOURS. Couldn't come up with any, then my besties said that the working title was "honest and straight to the point" so I gave up. It is N and R's fault. I'm sorry.

_A few weeks in their acquaintance_

“Oh, fuck, Geralt, where are you going to sleep?”

“Where are _you_ going to sleep, Bard. I’m taking the bed.”

“Oh no, no no no no no no,” Jaskier replies, his hands dancing in front of them like pissed off dragonflies, “you’re the Witcher, you’re made for hardship and sleeping on the floor and things like that! I, however-”

“Talk too much and lose your opportunity to claim the bed,” Geralt smirks, lounging on said bed, hands behind his head and ankles crossed. The indignant look on Jaskier’s face is very entertaining. 

“ _Come on_ , Geralt, I haven’t slept in a bed in _weeks_!” It’s been four days, tops. “My back is aching, I have bruises on my hips and shoulders, while you are perfectly _fine_!”

Truth is, Geralt _is_ fine. He’s used to sleeping on the hard ground and it’s summer, so it’s not even cold. But Jaskier has been annoying for the past two days, with questions and blabber and complaints about nothing and everything from the food - “How can you stand another roasted hare, Geralt, for fuck’s sake, would it pain you to eat some vegetables sometimes?” - to the state of his boots - “I really need to find a cobbler in the next town, Geralt, I can _feel_ the pebbles on the road, you aren’t supposed to _feel_ the pebbles on the road when you’re wearing boots”- and so on. Geralt is tired and cranky, and he’s in the mood to be an arsehole. 

“Shut up, Jaskier, and set your bedroll. I’m tired.”

Geralt ignores the sputtered insults that come out from Jaskier’s mouth and undresses a bit, just his armored jacket and his boots. Well, his pants too: while summer is perfectly bearable when one sleeps in the woods the heat of the little, crowded inn room is stifling and leather is not the most breathable fabric. He settles down on the bed again, in sweaty shirt and smallclothes, and closes his eyes without even looking at the bard. He can feel him stomping around the room, though, muttering incomprehensible things, setting his bedding on the floor next to the bed, and lowering himself on it. Peace, at last.

The peace lasts exactly for four breaths. 

Then Jaskier starts to roll this way and that, huffing and puffing, sitting up to finally undress himself, then lowering again, then he rubs various parts of his body, then he shuffles again…

“Jaskier!”

“What.”

“Stop moving!”

“I can’t, Geralt, the floor is even harder than the ground outside!!”

If Geralt was a religious man, which he is not, he would be praying to the gods for patience and strength. Instead, he just tries to drill a hole in the ceiling with his glare.

“Get on the bed.”

“Oh, good, I’m happy to see you’re seeing reason,” replies Jaskier with a suddenly chirpy tone.

“The fuck I am. I’m going to sleep here too, you can have the corner.”

“Geralt…” Jaskier whines. Geralt ignores it. He shuffles closer to the wall and turns on his side to leave the maximum of space on the bed to Jaskier, self praises himself for his compassion, and closes his eyes again.

Jaskier gets in the bed, back to Geralt’s front. He settles for approximately ten breaths. Then he kicks the cover (why he covered himself is a mystery that shall remain unsolved), tries to turn on his front, can’t, comes back onto his side, tries to get away from Geralt’s front, can’t, extends his legs, flexes his legs, and Geralt is going to throttle him, seriously. 

“Bard.”

“It’s hot as fuck, Geralt!”

“I know! If you stopped moving around you’d cool down though, so stop. moving.”

Jaskier grumbles but settles. There are a few centimeters between their torsos but that’s enough to feel the heat coming out of Jaskier’s skin in waves. Geralt sighs and lets himself fall asleep.

They wake up drenched in sweat. Jaskier’s hair is plastered to his forehead and Geralt suddenly wants to cut his. They agree not to try and sleep in a single bed again.

\---

_A few years into their acquaintance_

“I’m sorry lads, I have only a single left,” the innkeeper says, of course he says that.

“We’ll take it, good man, and could we have a bath too? The mighty Witcher just cleaned your swamp from the gruesome beasts that plagued this village, but sadly the swamp did not clean him!” Jaskier proclaims while Geralt rolls his eyes. He got used to the dramatic way Jaskier talks in these cases, but it still annoys him. The Bard is looking for attention while Geralt would like to be invisible most of the time, so it’s sometimes difficult to make this partnership work.

The room is, to the surprise of no one, small, crowded, and not very clean. The bed is set against the far wall, there’s a table with a basin filled with water, a chamber-pot, and a chair. Jaskier thanks the innkeeper as if it were the room of a castle, then slumps as soon as the door is closed.

“I’m sooo fucking tired, you would think I haven’t slept in two days. Oh, wait, that’s exactly what happened, because I was following your sorry ass up and down this dump for the last two days all for you to find two fucking malnourished drowners!”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s ‘secret’ bad mood lasts all evening, through the bath and the dinner and the performance. It starts to lift when the Bard is into his fourth tankard of ale and well on his way to being drunk, which is usually the time he starts to babble about some lad or lass he fucked at some point. Geralt knows when to stop listening to him. 

When they get back to their room Jaskier shuffles out of his clothes awkwardly, leaving them on the floor, before settling on the bed against the wall, his back to Geralt. Geralt, who discovers every fucking day that he has a lot more patience than he thought when it comes to Jaskier, picks up the doublet and the breeches and the chemise and folds them, if not neatly at least effectively, and puts them on the chair. He doesn’t want to deal with Jaskier’s complaints about his crumpled clothes tomorrow. 

Then he undresses too and settles on the bed, chest to Jaskier’s back. They’ve slept in single beds often enough in the last years that it’s not strange anymore: Jaskier knows how to curve himself enough to just fit against Geralt’s body, and Geralt has abandoned the sense of propriety and doesn’t care if their bodies touch. Like that they’re both able to sleep.

He’s roused up by a wriggling body before him.

“What.”

“Move, Geralt, I need to get up.”

“So get up.”

“I can’t you brute, you’re blocking the way.”

“Find a way, bard, I’m sleeping.”

“No, you’re not, so fucking move!”

Jaskier gives him a frankly annoying and stronger than expected elbow in the ribs, and Geralt retaliates by swatting Jaskier’s belly with the hand that’s resting there.

“No no no no no, you idiot! Don’t do that! I’m three seconds away from pissing myself!! Get the fuck up!”

Geralt reasons that sleeping in a pool of piss is not the way he wants to finish his night, so he gets up. Jaskier bolts to the chamber-pot and the sound he lets out when he finally empties himself is, honestly, lewder than warranted.

“You’re ok there, Jaskier?” Geralt snorts.

“Gods, Geralt, I should write a song about the immense relief that comes from pissing when one has had too many beers. It would be so relatable in taverns all around the Continent I think it would make me rich.”

Geralt laughs quietly while Jaskier continues to wax poetic about peeing and, since he’s up anyway, contributes to filling the pot too. They settle again in the bed shortly after that and sleep without other interruptions till the morning.

\---

_A few years into their friendship_

“There’s only..”

“Yeah, we know, we’ll take it.”

It’s midsummer, the streets are filled to the brim with people, so Geralt considers it half a miracle there was still one single room left at the dingy inn they found.

The sun is still high enough in the sky and Jaskier is shaking with the excitement of going out and enjoying the celebration, but Geralt only wants to go to sleep. He’s coming out of a three-day bruxa hunt and he’s tired.

Jaskier changes clothes and freshens himself while Geralt arranges their things how he likes them, puts some perfume on, checks his hair on the flat of Geralt's silver blade, and leaves with a wave and the promise to not make too much noise when he comes to bed, if he even comes back at all. 

Geralt undresses and luxuriates in the feeling of having the whole bed just for himself, rolling this way and that before settling on his back, hands crossed behind his head. It’s hot, but the room is luckily well ventilated, and despite the light and the noise from outside, Geralt goes out like a light.

He sleeps so soundly that he misses Jaskier’s return. 

What wakes him, in the middle of the shortest night of the year, is the gasp from his side, where Jaskier has made a place for himself with his head in the crook of his shoulder and a leg settled upon his. The bard startles, his head jumping up, a hand going to cover his mouth, his eyebrows shot up on his forehead. Geralt thinks his expression is quite dramatic.

“What.”

“I’m sorry, Geralt!! I’m so sorry! I knew I shouldn’t have eaten those lentil fritters, but they were sooo good, Geralt, and one can’t stop at the first, you know, they just kept coming-”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, immensely annoyed.

“I _farted_ , Geralt!”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t hum at me! I’m dying from embarrassment here!”

“You fart every fucking night, bard, go back to sleep.”

“ _What_? No, I don’t!”

“Yes, you do, and thank the gods it was just lentils, when you eat raw onions they smell, too,” Geralt smirks in the dark, enjoying the blush on Jaskier cheeks way more than he knows he should.

“Gods, I wish for the earth to swallow me now,” Jaskier complains, letting his head fall again on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies vaguely, sleep pulling him under once again.

\---

_A few months later_

Jaskier had started to sneeze in the morning when they had woken up in a small clearing. The autumn is settling firmly and the nights are getting colder, so it isn’t that surprising. What has been surprising, however, has been the absolute denial the Bard has manifested when Geralt has said he was falling ill.

“I don’t get colds, Geralt, I just don’t. Must have been dust.”

Sure, dust. 

Now they’re in a room in the first village - village must be pushing it, hamlet - they have come across and Jaskier is wearing all his clothes, one on top of the others. He looks ridiculous.

He also looks terrible: nose red and leaking, eyes watering, his hair plastered to his forehead, shivering across his body. He’s curled on the single bed in the fetal position and hasn’t uttered a word in hours. Geralt knows he should be happy about the fact, but he’s actually pretty concerned.

“Here, Master Witcher, I made your friend a thyme and willow infusion, to help with the cold and the fever. Will he need more blankets or furs?”

Geralt nods thankfully to the old woman who’s lending them the room but doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t get colds, ever, and in the long years they’ve known each other Jaskier has never gotten a fever.

“Maybe?” he answers, because honestly, what does she want him to say.

“Humpf, I’m getting them. Keep him warm and make him drink that. All of it!” she adds, leaving the room.

Geralt obeys, or at least tries to when Jaskier finally finds his words just to refuse the infusion.

“That’s absolutely disgusting, Geralt, and I wouldn’t drink it if I were in the face of death, which I’m not, am I?” he asks and sounds a little worried doing it. Geralt sighs.

“Jask, you are drinking this thing or I’m going to make you.”

“Oh, will you now?”

There’s an edge in Jaskier’s voice. There’s always an edge in Jaskier’s voice. Geralt has spent the last ten years ignoring it.

“ _Yes_. Drink.”

Jaskier grumbles something nonsensical and drinks, making a lot of very weird, very unattractive faces. Ten minutes later, he sleeps.

He sleeps through the meager dinner the old woman - Catherine - offers Geralt, bread and cheese and mead to which the Witcher adds some jerky. He sleeps through Geralt getting undressed. He sleeps through Geralt adjusting him so he can shuffle into the bed too, without being smothered by the mount of blankets and furs that cover the bard. Jaskier sleeps, and sweats, and the fever goes down. Geralt falls asleep, relieved.

The noise that wakes him up is out of this world. It’s not something he’s ever heard before and it comes from right next to him. He sits suddenly, hand already on the hilt of the sword he keeps near to the bed before he realizes the sound comes _from Jaskier_. Jaskier is _snoring_ , loud enough that the entire hamlet has probably woken up from it. It seems like a mix of the sound of a waterfall and the screech of a griffon and it’s awful. Geralt simply can’t stand it. 

“Jask. Jaskier. Wake up.”

Jaskier doesn’t wake up. Geralt wonders if the small amount of oxygen that reaches his brain through his clearly congested nostrils is keeping him in a forced, strange sleep that maybe is dangero...

“Jaskier! Wake the fuck up!”

Geralt releases the sword he was still holding to shake his companion by the shoulder, starting with little movements and ending shaking him strongly enough that only his grasp prevents the bard from falling from the bed. Jaskier, finally, wakes. The relief of the silence is staggering.

“Wha?”

“Wake up, Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, scrolling him again a little. Jaskier sits up, face haggard and eyes half-lidded, and starts to take off the first of the four doublets he owns and he’s currently wearing.

“Why?” he whines, taking off another jacket.

“You were snoring.” There’s a silence. Jaskier stills.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jaskier replies then, voice suddenly much more awake than before. “You woke me up, while I’m sicker than I have been in years, Geralt, _years_ , because I was snoring??”

“Very loudly.” Geralt is not going to let himself be shamed with this. Jaskier was very, very, very loud, even by his standards.

“Fuck you, Geralt, truly, fuck you.”

Geralt shrugs. Jaskier gets up to dig in his pack to find a clean chemise, the one he’s currently wearing damp with sweat. It sticks to his torso, his chest hair, and even his nipples apparent under the sheerness of the fabric. Not that Geralt’s looking or anything.

When he comes back to the bed he stomps his foot on the floor and arranges himself on the back, probably trying to be as intrusive as possible for Geralt. Joke’s on him, Geralt just shuffles closer, sets a leg between the bard’s and goes back to sleep. If Jaskier snores again he doesn’t hear it.

The next morning Jaskier is in a terribly bad mood, he has dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and his voice has gone completely nasal, but he does not have a fever anymore and, if he isn’t talking, it's just because he doesn’t want to, not because he can’t. Geralt can’t help but see it as an improvement, but he accepts Catherine’s advice and they stay another night. Jaskier snores a lot less loudly this time. They almost have a lulling quality to them. Geralt doesn’t mention it to Jaskier.

\---

_A few days after the Djinn incident_

“We’d like two rooms, good sir!”

That’s new.

“I have only one left, Master Bard.”

That’s not.

“Really? Not even a little corner with a bed that.. oh, well! We’ll take the room then, thank you very much, and maybe dinner? what d'you say, Geralt, dinner?”

Geralt nods. He doesn’t understand, but he nods. Jaskier’s smile is as blinding as it is fake, and Geralt doesn’t understand.

“Yes, so, two plates of whatever you’ve got today in the kitchen, one ale and a bottle of wine, thank you very much!”

Jaskier only drinks wine when he wants to get drunk and can’t afford spirits. Geralt doesn’t understand, but doesn’t say anything.

Later, when their bellies are full and Jaskier is on the way to being pretty drunk, they go up to their room. They undress without any ceremony and settle on the bed, which is slightly larger than what they’re used to. Geralt takes the chance to settle on his back, but Jaskier curls on his own side like usual, back to him, murmurs a vague goodnight Geralt almost doesn’t catch, and goes to sleep. Well, he pretends. Geralt stays there, in the dark, listening to the uneven breathing of his friend, to his rabbiting pulse, until they settle and they even out and finally, Jaskier sleeps.

Geralt uses Jaskier's sleeping sounds to lull himself to sleep, too. 

What wakes him are a subtle, whining sound and a distinctive smell, at first. The scent is salted water and, in Geralt’s experience, it means tears, but there’s no one else here but Jaskier and why would Jask...

Jaskier is crying in his sleep, whining softly like a wounded creature, his body shivering uncontrollably and tightening around his core. 

Geralt knows nightmares. Geralt has nightmares all the fucking time. Well, almost. Except when he doesn’t sleep, or when he sleeps in the same bed as Jaskier, but he doesn’t think about _that_.

Jaskier has nightmares too, often enough, but usually, he flails and hits and frowns until he falls out of the bed and wakes up from the pain. This is different. This is heartbreaking. 

Geralt curls around Jaskier’s form, pressed from the knees up, his nose in Jaskier’s nape, his hand tightening around Jaskier’s middle.

Jaskier exhales a little “Geralt…” when he does, but he doesn’t seem to wake up and continues to cry and shake. 

It takes a long time for the Bard to settle, and longer still for Geralt to fall asleep.

\---

_A handful of months later_

It’s not the first time, Geralt thinks. It won’t be the last either. There’s no need to pay attention to that _this time_. He should ignore it like he ignored it the other times. 

_Fuck_.

The inn is less shitty than the ones they’re used to. Jaskier made good coin in the last few months, better than Geralt for sure, and last night was no different. That meant they could afford a room in a nicer inn for once, with a bed large enough to sleep side by side instead of being tangled together.

Except they are tangled together or, more precisely, Jaskier is plastered to Geralt’s side, an arm and leg sprawled across him, and he’s rutting. Geralt can feel the firmness of his cock pushing against his hip, the little twitching of his leg between his own, can smell the scent of arousal coming off the bard in waves that are not less enticing because of their familiarity, the little sighs of pleasure he lets go in his sleep.

It’s not the first time. 

Sometimes, especially when they haven’t seen a brothel in a while, or if Jaskier hasn’t gotten lucky in some time, the bard has nice dreams and is helpless against them. Geralt prefers them to the nightmares he had for weeks after the djinn, but it’s still an uncomfortable situation. It wouldn’t be as uncomfortable, though, if his treacherous dick wasn’t taking a distinct interest in the proceedings. 

_Fuck._

Geralt stays as still as he can, and he can stay very still, for a very long time. He wonders if Jaskier is going to stop soon or if he’s going to bring himself to climax this time. He usually doesn’t, deeper sleep claiming him after a short time. Geralt kinda wishes he did, though. He wonders what he would look like when he comes in his sleep, if he would frown or tense, if he would wake up and start babbling excuses, how he would make it so it’s Geralt’s fault, as usual. Geralt wonders if it would make him smell like Jaskier, and for how long. 

His cock is stiff as a sword. He’s sure Jaskier would love the comparison.

He stays still as Jaskier’s hand starts to jerkily move across his abdomen. He stays still as it flirts awkwardly with the edge of his smallclothes. It takes everything he has to stay still as long fingers pet his dick as if it was a cat. But when Jaskier lets out a broken “Geralt” in his sleep, he snaps.

His hand flies to the one Jaskier has settled unconsciously on his cock and squeeze, both the hand and the dick underneath. The relief is immense and he can’t help the groan that leaves his mouth. He uses Jaskier hand to get himself off, while tugging the bard tighter against his side and encouraging the movement of his hips with a hand on his firm, plush, lovely, fuck he wants to bury his face in it, ass. 

It’s wrong. It’s so, so _wrong_. But he’s never claimed to be a saint and it’s been months since he’s been with anyone and who’s he kidding, this has nothing to do with general horniness and everything to do with _Jaskier_. Jaskier, who’s now moaning softly, rutting with purpose, his hand limp under Geralt’s but perfect around his cock anyway, and Geralt closes his eyes and arches his neck and.. and everything stops.

Jaskier’s heartbeat is frantic. His breaths come in short bursts. His hand tightens around Geralt’s dick, then releases it. His hips stop. His scent sharpens with anxiety and fear.

The stillness lasts a few, interminable seconds. Geralt’s mind is a clusterfuck of shame and realization and lust and feelings he can’t make sense of. He is about to get up and away from the most embarrassing moment of his life when he feels Jaskier’s hips rutting again against his side and his hand squeeze, and the moan that leaves his throat is almost as embarrassing as the rest of, well, everything.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, a whisper on his chest, “what…?”

And Geralt can’t take the smell of fear anymore, not on his bard, not on Jaskier, who never smells like it. And he can’t take the small, insecure voice either, so different from the loud and self-assured one he’s gotten used to in the last decade at least. So he turns, keeping Jaskier close to him with the hand on his ass as he shuffles their legs to put one between the bard’s, and with the other hand, he embraces Jaskier’s cheek and jaw, his thumb sliding along his cheekbone. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because he has done enough without asking tonight.

“Do you want to?” is the response, and there’s so much disbelief in it it makes his heart squeeze.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

And so he kisses him, slowly at first then with more urgency when Jaskier opens his lips and welcomes his tongue. Jaskier’s hands come to his shoulders, his hair, his neck. Their bodies move together as if they’ve always done it, the pressure ridiculous but made enough by the simple fact that they are together, at last. Geralt feels the heat pool in his belly quicker than he ever thought possible and isn’t even surprised when he feels the warmth of Jaskier’s release through their smallclothes, the bard shouting his name across his lips as he orgasms, eyes shut and jaw slack. 

It doesn’t take much for Geralt to follow.

Later, when they’ve cleaned themselves and they’ve changed smalls, they lean on the bed woven like a thread and their kisses are sweet and sleepy.

“Next time, Geralt, I hope you’ll wake me soon enough so we can get to the actual fucking or, at least, nudity,” Jaskier says, already half asleep again.

Geralt feels warmth in his chest at the thought of next time.

“Next time we could start directly while we’re awake,” he answers, leaving a last kiss on Jaskier’s forehead.

“You’ve always been the strategist between us. Good plan,” Jaskier slurs, still talking even as his breath evens out and his eyes close.

Geralt holds him tighter, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [post](https://witchertrashbag.tumblr.com/post/628173848201904128/spielzeugkaiser-i-love-love-love-all-the) on Tumblr, which made me laugh so much! 
> 
> I hope you liked it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated and feed your author!
> 
> Check out my other Witcher fics:
> 
> \- [A piper at the gates of dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411083/chapters/56107210); canon universe, ep 6 fix-it, rated E, <9k. Geralt finds Jaskier one year and a half after the mountain.  
> \- the [Muse 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752481): Modern setting, from hook-up to lovers, rated E, Geralt wears kilts, angst with a happy ending. <20k  
> \- [Calligraphy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25365418): 5k ficwip challenge, College/University, rated E, inspired by art, fluff, 5k  
> \- [In the kitchen of a keep in the mountains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910944/chapters/62970847): canon universe, found family, food as a love language, internal monologues, character study, rated T, 12k  
> \- [Wish you were here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579083); canon universe, porn without plot, rated E, 5k. Geralt walks in on Jaskier.. again.  
> \- [Of food, friendship and apologies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27954674); canon universe, ep 6 fix-it, rated G, 2k, not or pre slash. Food is a love language.  
> \- [As we lie here in our bed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28527864): canon universe, porn without plot, somnophilia prompt for the Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, rated E, 1k  
> \- [Black in front of my eyes, bark against my back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616832): canon universe, porn without plot, outdoor, clothed sex, rated E, <1k  
> \- [Things that bump in the night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617060): pre canon universe, porn without plot, Eskel/Geralt, Kaer Morhen, rated E, <1k  
> \- [I quite like seeing you all tied up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617300): canon universe, porn without plot, Geraskier, soft bondage, rated E, <1k  
>   
> And you can come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ArtanisNaanie) too!


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